


Threat Level: Dangerous as Hell

by TaraSoleil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4885552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraSoleil/pseuds/TaraSoleil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a failed attempt to infiltrate a HYDRA base, James Barnes is forced to commandeer a ride. He gets more than he bargains for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Numerology

**Author's Note:**

> I had originally planned to make this a much longer piece, but everything I came up with after chapter 4 too closely resembled Wynn's That Which You Seek. So here is a very odd 'slice of life' post-Captain America: Winter Soldier.

Three.

He had never known numbers to be anything but facts – distances, calibers, levels and body counts. Now, he thought perhaps numbers could be more. Three was certainly not a number he cared for at the moment. It was three in the morning. He was three kilometers from his target, the third HYDRA base he had come to strike, and, incidentally, the first one he had failed to infiltrate.

Looking down from his perch atop the high retaining wall, he counted just three vehicles he might use to escape.

Three.

What a fucking asshole of a number.

A frown tugged at his mouth as the thought came without prompting through his head. Without orders, he had only his own instincts and thoughts to drive him. On occasion, such as now, those thoughts came up with phrases too colorful or informal to have ever been part of his programming. He clung to those thoughts, for he knew they were _him_.  The him he was striving to recover. The him he was desperate to know. The him now letting loose a string of highly unusual idioms that he was certain were not commonly used by anyone.

The cursing subsided long enough for him to catch the sound of an engine revving hard. His hearing was acute, enhanced like the rest of his body. The engine was growing louder, but was still two minutes away. He had time to choose his getaway vehicle.

In less than three seconds, he surveyed the three cars below.

The gas station was lit up like it was three in the afternoon, not three in the morning; the glaring florescent lights illuminated the vehicles and their owners, allowing him to assess the threat level and likelihood of success in his attempt to commandeer a ride.

At pump eight was a tall, boxy behemoth of a vehicle, neither truck nor car. He had no name for it aside from hideous. It was gun metal grey, which was reason enough to dislike it. The woman filling the thing with gasoline was short and round, her underarms flapped against her sides as she threw the door open and shouted at an unseen passenger. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the window, easily tracing the outline of a teenager, head bent and face lit in the dull glow of a phone. The woman was no threat; she would be easy to overpower, but the child would be a problem. The child could cry out, could capture his image or call the authorities in the time it would take him to seize control of the hideous grey box.

Pump eight was out.

He looked to pump five, where an elderly man leaned his unsubstantial weight against the side of his sedan. The car, like its owner, was an older model. The car, rather unlike its owner, had been very well cared for. The silver sides shined under the fluorescents, sleek and free of even the smallest scratch or dent. He studied the old man. He was pushing eighty, with papery skin and wisps of white hair circling his head like a drooping halo. He was thin, little more than bones beneath clothes that were far too large. Something about the fragile body in oversized clothing tugged at him, some unknown memory trying to force its way to the front of his mind from the vault buried deep in the back, but it was too fragmented; all he had was a feeling and no actual memory to explain it. He shook his head and continued his threat assessment. Old, frail, alone. His training had taught him that there was no such thing as a zero threat level, but he was certain he had just found it.

For thoroughness and to avoid surprises, he turned to the last option. Pump three and a tiny car in a vibrant and eye-catching blue. That alone raised the threat level. People noticed bright things. The car was too conspicuous. The driver was just as bad. A woman, early twenties, lips painted red and body swaying to a song only she could hear. She was not large, but she was young enough and strong enough to put up a fight.

No, pump five. The old man. That was the safe option. The car was inconspicuous. The driver easy to overpower. Tactically, he knew it was the best choice, yet as he dropped down into the shadow of the dumpster he kept his eye trained on pump three. As he crept along the wall avoiding the surveillance cameras he moved closer to pump three. As he broke into a run, he ran to pump three.

He was on her in under three seconds, but she had seen him, had dove for the open door and slammed it shut, had thrust the key into the ignition. All too slow. He was closing the door as she peeled out of the parking lot.

“Out,” he ordered.

“No way!”

“OUT!” he demanded, holding the gun for her to see but not pointing it at her.

“Fuck off!” she replied, oddly calm in the face of a 9 millimeter.

“I need the car and don’t want to kill you.” It was true. His new orders, his new mission, given to him by himself and no one else, did not permit killing of anyone outside of HYDRA and her agents. Still, he hoped the threat would be enough to at least gain control of the car.

“No way,” she said again, chin jutting out in stubbornness. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get the settings on this thing just right? _Three months_! I am not going to have some paramilitary wack job undoing all my good work because he just _had_ to move the driver’s seat back.”

He couldn’t think of a reply. He wasn’t sure there was one even if he had been playing with a full deck. So he just stared at her face reflected in the rear view mirror as she pulled onto the highway and drove.

HYRDA would be looking for a man alone. A couple might slip through their net more easily, and he had no doubt there would be repercussions for his failure this night.

The woman, sensing his acceptance or perhaps just too much of a civilian to understand the danger she had put herself into, spoke. She spoke in a tone of pleasant brightness he had forgotten existed. “So, where are we going?”

“North.”

“Already on that one, Major Monosyllable,” the woman said with something of a snort. “Got specifics for me?”

He studied her a moment before shifting himself into the front passenger’s seat. “New York.”

“What a coincidence! That’s where I’m headed, too.” She sounded both sarcastic and completely genuine at the same time. “And how in the hell did you fit through there? I can’t even fit my purse between the seats half the time.”

Again, he had no response to her. He opted for surly and antisocial demands instead. “Can’t this tub go any faster?”

“Do not sass, Tremayne.” She raised an eyebrow and a finger in warning.

“Tremayne?” He frowned his lack of understanding until she pet the dash and cooed at her car. “You named this dinky little thing Tremayne?”

“You ought to be nicer to my car. You two have quite a bit in common.” That warning finger fell against his arm, tapping pointedly against the metal plates that had been exposed when he deflected rounds from the guards. He had not realized the silver was visible.

He stared down at that red lacquered fingernail as it hit against his arm. He should not have let her get that close, but he had absolutely no inclination to stop her. Probably just because she was so little threat to him, he thought, though even that seemed inadequate. It was more a curiosity about her. Her hand did not shake, not when trespassed upon by a man twice her size, not when he put a gun in her face, not when she saw he had a fully-articulated metal arm.

“Who are you?”

“Darcy, world’s greatest assistant and granddaughter, and I have the mugs to prove it,” she said, holding her hand out for him to shake. He took it in his flesh and bone hand, though he offered no name in return. “And you are?”

“No one.”            

He had no name to give. He was no longer the Asset, but he was not the man in the museum either. He was not James Buchanan Barnes. Not yet.

“You say so.”

Her hand returned to the wheel, tapping out an irregular rhythm that he recognized as a song and not an attempt to release her nervous energy. The fact that her red lips were silently forming words in time with the tapping of her fingers helped him in that deduction considerably.

“So,” Darcy said after some miles of her silent song, “where’d the super cool metal arm come from?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Where in New York are you going?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Major Monosyllable,” she sighed. “We have a long drive ahead of us. _Loooong_. You might want to get with the sharing before I bust out with the showtunes until I break you. And believe me, I’ve broken better men than you with my Best of Cats medley.” She raised a smug eyebrow over the top of her glasses and offered an even smugger smile. “I will break you.”

He turned away in time to see the headlights reflect off Georgia mile marker three.

Three. Fucking asshole of a number.

 


	2. Pissed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a rest stop is made, and a phone call taken.

Three states gone. Some five hundred miles between his failed attempt to infiltrate the HYDRA base just outside Jacksonville and the innocuous gas station where they now sat. They had been parked by the pump for five minutes, neither moving to leave the car, though he could tell by the woman’s fidgeting that she was desperate to escape the vehicle.

“One of us is going to have to get out,” Darcy stated the very obvious fact. “They don’t make full service gas stations anymore.”

“Damn shame,” he found himself replying, as a fuzzy image flashed through his mind of gleaming chrome and bulbous fenders, of flirtatious winks and dollar bills slid into the front pocket of his oil-spotted coveralls. 

“So,” the woman said. “Are you getting out?”

“Are you?”

“I will not leave you alone with Tremayne.”

He rolled his eyes skyward in a silent prayer for patience, fighting the smile that came; the Asset would never have done such a thing. Was this him? What this James Buchanan Barnes? He didn’t know, but the more distance he put between his new self and the Asset the more he liked it. “I will not touch anything.”

“Not good enough.”

“Cross my heart?” he offered, and received a snort for it. “Scout’s honor.”

“Hardly.” She scowled, a look that did absolutely nothing for her in his opinion. “We will both get out. I will lock the car and keep the key.”

“I can hotwire it.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said flatly. “I will be on the phone to my BFF and her Thunder God boyfriend in a heartbeat and you will have your head crushed like a Skittle.”

It was his turn to snort, though he thought he did a very good job of swallowing most of the incredulous noise.

They eyed one another cautiously, mirroring the other’s movements as they unbuckled their seat belts, reached for the door handles and slowly slid from the car. He kept his head ducked and turned away from the cameras, trying to hide his arm as well.

“Dude, you are trying way too hard,” the brunette said with a shake of her head. “You have my permission to grab that hoodie from the backseat.”

“If it’s yours, it won’t fit.”

“It’s not mine. It’s Thor’s.” Something in her tone implied that he ought to know who that was, ought to know that he was a man on par with him in size and shape.

“Who is Thor?”

“My BFF’s Thunder God boyfriend.” Again with the tone of ‘you ought to know this’.

She started the gas pump to filling the car while she waited for him to retrieve the sweatshirt. She failed to notice him sliding the slim phone from her pocket and depositing it in the center console as he leaned in. When he stood, she set the lock on the car with a shrill _beep_ of the car alarm. “Now, I need to pee. Overshare, I know, but I’ve been holding it for like a hundred miles and I can hold it no more. You stay here, I’ll go in.”

“No. We will maintain visual contact.”

She turned on him, hands on hips and a rather impressive glare in her eye. “Are you planning on escorting me into my toilet stall? Because I’ve forgiven a lot of your crazy so far on this trip, but that’s pretty much where I draw the line.”

He offered no reply, only what felt like a terribly sarcastic smile and a gesture for her to start walking.

“You know it’s not smart to leave the gas pump running unattended, right?” she muttered as they walked toward the convenience store.

Like the one at which he had found her, it was painfully bright and garishly decorated in primary colors. His old station never looked like this, he thought, his brain all but seizing as he claimed the memory as his own. There had been a gas station where he had worked. Sturdy brick pillars had held up a pristine white overhang to protect the customers when they drove in. Two metal gas pumps had stood, polished and curved, opposite the glass front of the shop. He had been made to stand beneath the overhang, hands behind his back like a little soldier, waiting for a car to arrive. There were three other boys who worked there, but they were ugly as mules. The ladies wanted him to wait on them, so the owner made sure they got him.

He caught his reflection in the finger-smudged glass of the bulletproof door. No woman would want him working on their cars now.

Darcy led the way to the back of the store, stopping outside the woman’s restroom. “You are so not coming in.”

“Open the door.”

She did, but made no move to enter. He took the small room in, calculating the square footage, potential hiding spots and escape routes. The cement block walls held no windows. The only vents were too small for Darcy to fit through. He nodded his satisfaction, and positioned himself beside the door, leaning on the wall and looking to all the world like your average travel worn man waiting for his girlfriend to finally get out of the bathroom.

Darcy shook her head and disappeared behind the door.

He waited. Three women entered and exited the restroom while he waited. He glared at the door, trying to listen through the wood and cement blocks, but all he heard was the tinny music playing through the speakers.

“Girlfriend holed up in there?” a man questioned as he made his way to the men’s room. He grunted a reply, which had the man laughing sympathetically.

When that man reemerged from the restroom, he was still waiting. He watched the man collect snack foods and felt the pangs in his own gut. He needed to eat. He needed to get moving. He needed Darcy to get her ass out of the fucking restroom.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” the woman sniffed as she stepped from the bathroom and into his laser point stare. “You don't get to glare after stealing my Gigi.”

"You're what?"

"My phone. Where is it?"

"In the car," he replied, scowling as he added, "You named your phone?"

"You do not get to sass me."

He held out his hand. “Keys.”

“You’re not driving my car.”

“No, I’m going to use the bathroom. It’s your turn to wait, and my turn to keep the fucking keys. Or I could just piss into a bottle while we’re driving down the interstate. Your choice.”

“Major Monosyllable, I think you’ve just been promoted to Sergeant Sass,” she informed him as she slapped the keys into his extended hand. “You will not leave without me.”

“No, ma’am.” He offered a rigid salute as he shoved the door aside.

 

She was not outside the men’s room. She was not browsing the snacks or sodas. She was not in the store at all. Panic built along with an odd feeling of loss. If she had run to the clerk at the front of the store, called the police, they would already be on their way. He had only taken 1.8 minutes in the restroom. Average police response time ranged from between five and eight minutes. Given that he was a large man with a gun, who had kidnapped a young woman and dragged her across state lines, he expected them to already be surrounding the convenience store.

He had ordered himself not to kill anyone unless they tried to kill him first. He had made himself a promise that he would distance himself from the Asset, but, as he stalked toward the doors, he felt inside the borrowed sweatshirt for the gun he kept holstered at his side. He had a fresh clip. That was 10 rounds. He could easily escape a standard police patrol with just that, but he didn’t think he could take more than three squad cars without a second weapon.

His eyes swept the lot through the bulletproof glass. The police hadn’t arrived yet. There were five cars parked at the pumps. He could steal one and make it across the state line to Virginia before the local cops knew what happened. But, then HYDRA would have a clue to his location. They could theorize and infer based on his movements where he would be heading next.

“God dammit,” he cursed.

He glared out at the cars available to him, three had children, one a muscular man and an even more muscular passenger, the last had a woman. Brunette. Approximately five feet four inches. Red lips pulled down in a frown. Red nails drumming impatiently on the hood of a vibrant blue car. Darcy.

He threw the door open and walked across the lot to her, being careful not to draw attention to himself.

Darcy had no such concerns. “HURRY UP ALREADY!”

Her shout drew some glances and forced his already ducked head to drop lower.

“My phone is ringing! Come on!” she whined and held her hands out for the car keys.

He pressed the button on the fob to unlock the doors and the woman dove at the phone, cutting off the discordant song about a man being blinded by science.

“Hey, boss-lady,” the woman said brightly.

As her brow furrowed in response to the voice on the other end of the line, he climbed into the car and slid the key into the ignition. She took the hint, dropping into the driver’s seat and starting the car before she even closed the door.

“Did you try looking under that pile of printouts I left for you last week?” She looked to him and muttered, “She didn’t even read them. Half a rainforest I killed for those reports. I don’t know why I bother.”

“End the call,” he ordered quietly.

“You do not know Jane, Sergeant Sass,” Darcy replied. “If I tried to get her off the phone she’d know there was something wrong. I— _Hey_!” She cried as he stole the phone from her hand, plugging it into the car’s port with practiced ease.

“What’s that noise?” a concerned voice filled the cabin of the car.

“Just me being hella annoyed by Sergeant Sass,” Darcy said and slapped his arm.

“Sergeant Sass?” the woman said slowly. He waited for the scream of panic, for the insistence that she get out now and run. Instead, the woman sighed, deeply and disapprovingly. “Darcy, did you pick up another hitchhiker?”

“That was one time!” she insisted.

“You drove him to Seattle,” the voice reminded her. “In _my_ RV!”

“What? I wanted coffee.”

“Darcy, who is this guy?”

“What makes you think it’s a guy?”

“Darcy, please.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “Tall, dark, broody. Looks good in Thor’s sweatshirt. I might let him keep it if he’s nice and doesn’t keep sassing Tremayne.” She shot him a look over her shoulder as she directed the car back onto the highway.

“So where are you?”

“In the car.”

“Where is the car?”

“On I-95 Northbound.” Darcy smiled at the aggravated growl that escaped the woman.

“Which state?”

“All of them, Jane. It’s an _inter_ state.”

“Darcy, I swear to God—“

“Relax, boss-lady. We’re almost to Virginia. We’ll be in New York in no time. Right, Sergeant Sass?” She nudged him playfully with her elbow. “Come on, I know you’ve been keeping a running ETA.”

“Seven hours, forty-eight minutes,” he said gruffly.

“Are we on speaker phone?” the woman asked.

“Yep,” Darcy chirped.

“All right,” the woman said. “Sir, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said, glaring at the dashboard as though this Jane might somehow be able to see it and stop whatever moralizing sermon she was preparing to throw at him.

When she spoke again, she sounded earnest and kind. “My advice to you is to not argue. Believe me, you do not want to be on the receiving end of one of Darcy’s Broadway medleys. It is painful in ways that cannot be explained by any known scientific principles.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Too late.”

There was a pause. “I am so, so sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“You’ve managed to bring back Major Monosyllable, Jane,” Darcy complained. “We’d made such progress after spending all of Georgia singing my Best of _Cats_ medley!” She smiled at him in a way that made him deeply uncomfortable. “That’s okay! How about some _Cabaret_?”

“NO!” he and Jane shouted together.

“Darcy, I don’t know who this man is, but he does not deserve that. No one does. Ever.”

“You just do not appreciate my interpretive genius. You may science like a boss, but I am like the Queen of the Broadway Medley.” Darcy pouted and started to hum a song to herself.

“Sir, if you make it to New York in one piece, I will find a way to make it up to you,” Jane promised him.

“Go do something sciencey and stop trying to turn my super sexy hitchhiker against me!” Darcy ordered.

“Super sexy?” he questioned, mouth pulling into a smile that was at once both unfamiliar and completely natural.

“Oh, shut it, Sergeant Sass.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as Darcy fumbled with the phone trying to drive seventy miles per hour and find the button to end the call. She finally growled in annoyance and handed him the phone.

“Goodbye, Jane,” he said and pressed the red button, that smile taking over more of his face.

He would not have been smiling if he knew that far away in a tower in New York City a very clever AI was monitoring the phone calls of anyone associated with SHIELD or the Avengers in search of key phrases. He would not be smiling to know that his voice patterns were found to match, with a certainty of 99.99%, an old recording of Sergeant Barnes, James B. from a World War II propaganda film. He would not be smiling to know that the very clever AI had informed his creator that the man once known as Sergeant Barnes, James B. was currently driving on Interstate-95 Northbound through Virginia and had just passed mile marker 31.  He would not be smiling to know that the creator of that very clever AI had dropped his Scotch and made a flying leap out the window and then a phone call to one Thor Odinson as he flew across the Manhattan skyline toward Virginia, mile marker 31.


	3. Brisket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which food is had and an order given.

“Uh, dude,” Darcy said, concern coloring her generally bright tone into something tight and strained. “I know I’ve been driving for about seventeen hours straight, and I know I get a little punchy when I’m tired and haven’t had my coffee…” She paused, glancing at the rear view mirror. “But I swear that car has been following us for the past thirty miles.”

The side mirror showed him an SUV, massive and black, windows tinted beyond any legal limit. It was following at a reasonable distance, but Darcy was right. It had been behind them for too long.

“Accelerate slowly,” he ordered, the Asset working its way to the fore as he plotted a strategy. “Left now. Accelerate.”

For once, Darcy obeyed without fuss or sass. The little blue car sped up, easing over into the leftmost lane and around the slower minivan. She followed his commands and wove the car seamlessly through the traffic. To the casual observer, it would appear that she had gotten impatient with the cars around her and was seeking a swath of road free of obstructions. If the SUV were like any other commuter or traveler, they would not follow her smooth transitions across the highway.

As she drove, he watched the SUV mimic her movements, though with far less grace, jerking between lanes and accelerating fast to catch up.

Her eyes darted between the mirrors. “They’re not even pretending they aren’t following us anymore.”

“No, they’re not.”

“That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

The SUV was pulling closer.

“So they’ve been made. Will they box us in? Will they run us off the road?” Darcy glanced at him, and he was surprised that she was not panicking. She looked concerned, and naturally so, but that was the all. He had enough of his memories intact to know that civilians screamed, cried or froze when presented with such things as guns and threats of car wrecks.

“Take this exit. Now.”

She yanked the wheel hard to the right, nearly taking the nose off another car as she cut across two lanes of traffic to reach the exit. She sped down the ramp, taking a sharp left without being prompted.

“Slow down,” he said.

“What? No way are they running Tremayne into a ditch in Nowheresville, Virginia! I love this car!”

“Yes, and I’m sure he has a deep and abiding love for you, as well. But I need you to slow down.”

“You are so rude, and nuts,” she said, but her foot eased off the gas.

“Whatever you do, don’t stop,” he said.

“What are you going t—“ her question cut off into a shout. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Her hand grabbed at his arm, shirt, jeans pocket, but she could not keep hold of him as he pulled himself out the window and onto the roof. “DO NOT DENT MY BABY!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he called back, though he doubted she could hear him over the tire noise and her own screams of disbelief.

The SUV was approaching. The Asset assessed the vehicle, its mass and velocity, and determined the precise amount of momentum he needed to propel himself directly onto the sleek black hood. His vehicle’s velocity remained constant as he pushed off. He did not know what became of the car as he worked his way across the SUV, deflecting the bullets and smashing a fist into the windshield to tear the steering wheel from the driver’s hands. He leapt to the roof, drawing his gun as the SUV began to weave unsteadily down the road. He shot through the metal, one, two, three shots and waited for a return fire. None came.  He climbed down onto the running board, shot twice more into the cabin to ensure the targets were dead, then shot the front tire out.  

The Asset leapt free, tucking and rolling into the dive, his hand reaching out to slow his momentum, sparking against the asphalt. He rose, gun still trained on the SUV as it tipped over and careened into the ditch. His eyes bore into the exposed underbelly, waiting. No signed of life. His gun pointed to the gas tank and fired, setting the gasoline ablaze.

“Dude! That was badass!”

He turned, gun raised.

“Whoa! Not a bad guy,” a woman said, hands raised and eyes enormous behind her glasses. Designation: Civilian. Threat level: Minimal. Mission Parameters…

Mission Parameters…

His eyes grew narrow as he stood trying to remember the mission. One level 8 operative. That had been the last mission he had been assigned.

“Hey, are you going to lower that or should I start running and screaming?” the woman asked. “I’m not really in the right shoes for running, though, so I’m really hoping the gun will go down.”

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Her mouth hung open for a long moment. “Uh, I’m Darcy. You tried to steal my car. I sang Cats songs at you for like two hundred miles. You’re wearing my friend’s sweatshirt.”

Gun still trained on her, he looked down at the maroon sweatshirt. It was dirty and torn, just like the coat beneath. He recognized neither. His armor was missing, his guns, his handlers.

“I was driving you to New York?” she said uncertainly.

“New York,” he repeated slowly, trying to place it in the confines of the mission. No, the mission had been in Washington, DC. His target, level 8, strong, fast. His target on a metal-frame bridge in the air. His target begging even as he fought. His mission was incomplete. Had his target fled to New York?

“Take me there,” he said, stalking toward her, taking hold of her arm and pulling her to the car.

He sat behind her, gun in hand. “Drive.”

“I think I prefer your original Major Monosyllable,” she commented, but followed orders and drove.

“Why New York?” she asked.

“My mission.”

She nodded. “What’s that?”

“To kill.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, flinching when the lever cocked. “I’m just saying, you didn’t seem all that keen to kill before. If all you wanted was to kill people, then you’d’ve shot me and stolen Tremayne.”

“Tremayne?”

“My car,” she said, her tone implying this was old news.

He scowled. “Stupid name. And you are not my mission. I have no cause to kill you.”

“Oh, cool, then put the gun away and pass me some of that brisket.” Her fingers pointed toward a red plastic cooler on the seat beside him. “Come on,” she griped. “I’ve been driving since Miami. I’m starting to get hangry.”

Cautiously, he holstered the gun, keeping his eyes on her as he did. She wasn’t even looking at him.

He prodded the cooler, lifted the lid with slow, deliberate movements, ready to slam the lid shut and hurl the thing from the car if necessary. When it did not explode, he glanced inside. It was filled with layer after layer of foil-wrapped bundles.

“Top layer’s all brisket sandwiches,” she said, holding her hand out. “You can have one.”

“I have sustenance.”

“Dude, if you’re talking about that Power Bar in your pocket, I’ve got some sad news for you. That is not sustenance, that is mass produced torture. Have a sandwich. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried Grama Lewis’s brisket.” She wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand. “Brisket!”

He weighed the package in his left hand, the sensors calculating its precise weight and density. Too soft and light to hold a grenade or knife. It was nothing more than she claimed, a sandwich. He slapped a foil wrapped sandwich into her palm and received a sarcastic ‘thank you’ in reply. From the back seat, he watched as she peeled back the foil and ate single-handed.

“You just gonna sit and watch me eat?” she asked through a mouthful of sandwich. “That’s kind of weird.”

He glared at her in reply.

“Seriously, just eat.”

He held out for twenty minutes, watching her relish the sandwich as he considered the sustenance in his pocket. It seemed inadequate after observing the proffered alternative. He took a sandwich from the cooler.

“That’s my boy,” the woman smiled.

His eyes darted between her face in the rear view mirror and the sandwich in his hands, studying every nuance of each, searching for some indication of duplicity. None came. The meat smelled like meat, untainted by even the smallest traces of chemical agents. The woman held nothing but anticipation.

Cautiously, he took a bite. A sound escaped him, a low, guttural groan. He took three more bites before he even swallowed the first.

“I will inform Grama Lewis that you like it,” the woman said with a smile.

He devoured the sandwich and took a second from the cooler.

“Slow it down, Soldier!” she cried. “I promised there’d be enough for everybody. You can’t ju— _Whoa_!”

The sudden exclamation drew his attention away from the sandwich, still half-eaten in his hand. There was a smile on her face as she stared up at the sky with wide eyes. He followed the line to see what had drawn her attention. There was a figure flashing across the bright blue sky, small in the distance but growing steadily larger as it approached. He would have thought it a bird but that it moved too fast. He might have thought it a plane, but it was too small.

“Think it’s Stark,” she commented.

Stark, Howard A. Designation: Government Agent. Threat Level: Moderate. Mission Status: Complete; Target Terminated.

He saw the target in his mind, moustache dark against his paling skin, eyes growing huge as he stalked closer. The target’s voice cracked as he tried to speak, his attempts to clear his throat only brought blood to his mouth; still his lips moved with the words he couldn’t voice: _I’m sorry, I didn’t know_.

The Asset frowned as the mission returned to him. He never understood why the target had apologized. He asked his handler, but he could not remember the answer he had been given, if one had been given at all.

“Wonder what he’s doing way down here,” the woman said, eyes darting between the fast approaching Stark and the road before her, too distracted to see the second SUV. Had he not been so concerned with the memory of his past mission, he would have caught it sooner. As it was there was little he could do now save shouting.

“Exit! NOW!”

The woman followed orders, sending the car screeching across traffic to the exit. The SUV followed. As did Stark.

“Are you going to surf their hood again? That was pretty bad ass.”

He checked his clip. Three bullets remained.

Three.

What a fucking asshole of a number.

He blinked at the thought, _his_ thought. Not the Asset’s. His. He frowned at the gun in his hand, at the half-eaten sandwich in his lap, at the holes in the hooded sweatshirt Darcy had let him wear. He frowned to see he was in the backseat once again. How had he gotten here?

“Sweet! Backup has arrived!” Darcy practically sang.

“I resent that, kid,” a deep voice came through the car’s speakers, startling the two passengers. The voice sounded oddly tinny and slightly muffled as if the man were speaking into a can. “I am the star of this show. Point Break over there is the backup.”

“Did you hack my phone?” she demanded. “Asshole move, Stark.”

“How else was I supposed to talk to you, Lewis?” the tin can man questioned, his voice overflowing with sarcasm. “And your _passenger_.”

His voice dropped so menacingly as he said the final word that even Darcy found herself staring at the man in the backseat of her car. Stark knew him, or some part of him. There was no other reason for him to sound so murderous.

“You got a problem with Major Monosyllable?” she said, all brightness gone, replaced by something strangled and afraid.

“You could say that. Pull over.”

“You do know there’s a dark and sinister SUV chasing me down, right?”

“We’ve got this, Lewis. I want you off the road and out of that car,” he said. ‘And away from him’ so obviously implied the woman offered a shrug of apology as she looked at him through the rear view mirror.

“You’re the boss,” she said. “Hold on tight, Soldier!”

Even with the warning, he was unprepared for the sudden loss of velocity. He slammed hard into her seat as she stomped the brake pedal, then into the door as she yanked the wheel to the right. The SUV must have put on a burst of speed because it slammed hard into the rear quarter panel, sending Tremayne spinning like a dizzied top into the ditch.  

Before she lost consciousness, Darcy shouted: “SAVE THE BRISKET!” 


	4. Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which orders are obeyed.

He was a soldier. An order had been given. He obeyed.

And so he found himself standing on the side of a rural highway in northern Virginia, a cooler in one hand and a gun in the other, and a young woman draped in between, staring in confusion at the two approaching him from the sky. A man in a metal suit, and a man in a t-shirt that read ‘Scientists Do It in the Lab’. Both flying.

“Put her down,” the tin can man ordered.

He was a soldier. An order had been given. He obeyed. He knelt in the grass, easing Darcy down to the ground.

She groaned and blinked up at him through cracked glasses. Her blue eyes were unfocused. “You saved the brisket,” she said quietly. “My hero.”

A smile pulled at his mouth, but he made no reply as he stepped away from her. The tin can man had a hand raised, a blinding light in his palm pointed directly at his chest; he did not need mission parameters and threat levels to know that it was a weapon aimed, primed and ready to kill. The tin can man moved between them, yellow eyes glaring as he knew the real human eyes beneath the mask were. ‘Scientists Do It in the Lab’ had stalked down the highway and out of his line of sight. Moments later a metallic scraping and the sound of crumpling metal told him that the SUV had been disabled.

“That was the second enemy vehicle,” he informed the tin can man.

“Well, aren’t you Mr. Popularity,” the tinny voice said, the venomous sarcasm in no way dulled by the metal armor. “That makes, what, at least eight people out to kill you today?”

“Hardly a record,” he commented, and the helmeted head tilted infinitesimally to the side, an involuntary movement that somehow looked like a smirk.

‘Scientists Do It in the Lab’ returned from destroying the SUV, a hammer in his hand and something of a smile on his face. “Darcy, are you hurt.”

“Yes!” the woman cried and groaned as she sat up in the grass. “I’m devastated. Look at Tremayne! I loved that car!”

“Are you physically harmed?” he corrected.

“No, just mentally scarred and traumatized,” she said. “On the bright side, Sergeant Sass saved the brisket!” Her arms flew toward him, fingers flailing and flapping in the universal language of ‘gimme gimme’. He handed the cooler over to her and fought a smile as she peered inside at the precious cargo. “Yep, still safe.”

“Well, isn’t he a sweetie,” the tin can man muttered. His voice had lost the strange synthetic quality that came from being pushed through speakers.

He looked away from Darcy to see the man had lifted the visor of his helmet.

“Howard.” He stumbled away, gun falling from his numb fingers. “No, no. You’re dead. I killed you.”

_‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’_

“I didn’t want to,” he insisted. “I had orders. You were my mission. I had no choice. I had to.”

“Whoa, Sergeant Sass,” Darcy called, following his path away from the ghost that haunted him. Her hands were on him, pressed against his face, prying his hands from his hair. “Just chillax.”

_‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’_

“His mind is far afield, Darcy. You should step away.”

“Shut it, Thor,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“He’s dangerous, kid.”

“Nobody asked you, Stark!”

“Stark, Howard A. Designation: Government Agent. Threat Level: Moderate. Mission Status: Complete; Target Terminated,” he repeated the words he knew he had spoken to his handler. He repeated them again and again, every time wishing the words would be different, that his actions had been different. He had known him, that man in the car. He had known him, but still he had killed him. He had wanted to stop himself.

“Soldier, attention!” Darcy shouted.

“Yes, ma’am!” he replied, arms snapping to his sides and spine rigid. The tears stopped instantly, and he stared straight ahead, awaiting orders.

“Damn, Lewis,” the tin can man said. “Not bad.”

Her hand flew up with a single-fingered salute before she turned back to him. “Soldier, name, rank and serial number!”

“Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant. 32557038. Reporting for duty, ma’am.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” she said. “At ease.” He obeyed the order, dropping into parade rest while she turned and walked up the grassy embankment toward the men still standing on the asphalt. There was talking – arguing if the hand gestures were any indication – and the metal soldier’s shoulders dropped as much as his armor would allow. More talking, more hand gestures followed, and the metal soldier stomped away muttering to himself. The others marched down to where he waited.

“Sergeant.”

“Ma’am.”

“This is Staff Sergeant Odinson,” she informed him. “You will follow his orders as you would mine. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Good. At ease, gentlemen.” She smiled as she turned to meet the metal soldier.

“Helicopter’s two minutes out,” the man said tightly, dark eyes boring holes into him. “A room is being prepared for him back at the tower.”

“Atta boy!” she said and patted him on the arm. “And that, gentlemen, is how you subdue a sexy metal-armed soldier boy.” She offered a smug grin and sat herself down on the cooler, waiting for the helo to arrive.

His superiors directed him onto the helo, through inspection and into his quarters. The woman called it a barrack, but there was no mistaking it for anything other than a cell. Three walls of solid metal with a toilet, a sink and a bed that each slid from nowhere when buttons were pressed, and a single, narrow wall of clear, thick glass. On the other side of that glass, his superiors watched him, discussed him as if he couldn’t hear them.

He stood at ease just on the other side of the glass patrician, stance wide, hands behind his back and eyes focused on nothing. He had been standing for hours and would continue to do so until given orders to do otherwise.

“What the hell did they do to him?” questioned a man introduced as Doctor Banner. “Was it HYDRA?”

“No, that one is the Army,” another commented dryly as he walked in. “In Basic we had to stand for hours in full gear until it became second nature. That’s probably the easiest thing he’s done all day.”

The woman who gave orders offered the new arrival a look, one that clearly spoke to how insane she thought him and his military training. It was a look that went ignored as the man offered her a hug that was clearly against regulations.

“Thank you for finding him,” the man said.

“He found me,” she said. “By the way, you look like shit. What happened to you?”

The tin can man spoke, his voice still overflowing with bitterness. “Your soldier boy happened.”

“It’s not his fault,” the man insisted. “He’s not himself. They brainwashed him. He said I was his mission.”

“Mission?” the woman repeated sharply.

At the question, the Asset snapped to attention. “One target: Level 8. Designation: Military Operative. Threat Level: Extreme. Mission: Terminate.” His vacant eyes focused on the man, his mission. “Mission Status: Incomplete.”

His left arm shot out, his palm vertical and fingers pressed tightly together, pushing his entire strength against the barrier in a single hard blow that shattered the glass the tin can man had claimed unbreakable. His target moved too slowly, shifting back only slightly in that brief moment it took the cage to crumble. He had his hand around the target’s throat.

“You are my mission,” he said, squeezing hard and feeling the pulse race beneath his fingers.

“Bucky,” the target wheezed, his strong hands gripping uselessly at the smooth metal forearm.

The doctor stepped away, scrambling to collect a vial and syringe as the tin can man threw himself at the Asset. Without his suit, though, the man wasn’t strong enough to stop him. Still he tried, and received a fist to the stomach for his efforts.

This mission would be completed.

An order had been given. He would obey it.

“Abort mission!” the woman shouted.

His fingers released at the words.

“At ease!” she ordered.

He stepped back and fell into parade rest, awaiting further instructions.  

His former target dropped to the floor, rubbing his throat and gasping for breath.

“Why did he listen to you?” the tin can man questioned in a confusion bordering on a whine.

“Because I am made of awesome,” Darcy said and turned an evil smile toward the soldier. “And he knows what will happen if he disobeys orders. Tell them, soldier.”

A shudder ran through him. “ _Cats_ Medley, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I very much doubt this story will continue beyond this point, but it's difficult to say what my brain will come up with.


End file.
